


Keep Your Secrets With You

by veryspecialone



Category: Community, Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/M, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryspecialone/pseuds/veryspecialone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know you'd never be able to successfully deny to Spencer Hastings just what kind of attention you've found yourself giving her, because this is not, as they apparently say, her first rodeo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Secrets With You

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by openhearts, who is incredibly unfair and demanding and a flawless human being. Takes place after S3 of Community and after S2 of Pretty Little Liars if you really need a timeframe. Title is from "Your Protector" by the Fleet Foxes.

You know exactly what to expect from Annie in this situation. She'll get all shrill and fluttery and start fishing around for validation, which you'll give her because _damn it all_  it's still kind of cute when she does this, but your stomach is already rolling a bit at the thought of having to deliver her a daily dose of self-esteem for the entire summer term. At least Annie Kim is taking the summer off and this new girl's name isn't Annie too. Somehow, though, in your head you still picture another little Annie-clone -- floral skirts and ballet flats all wrapped up in a cleavage-baring cardigan and topped off with a bubbly sense of academic superiority.  
  
What you're not expecting is willowy limbs and long, glossy chestnut hair. You're not expecting saddle shoes or tailored trousers or sharp blazers over crisp button-up shirts done all the way to the top. And, having heard that this new Annie-enemy (you're working on a pun for it but keep getting stuck on the word "anemone") has yet to begin her senior year of high school, you're certainly not expecting the fluttering lashes (the one detail you got right) to frame one of the steadiest, steeliest gazes you've ever seen. You're not expecting any of these things, but this is exactly what you're encountered with when you walk into your Philosophy of Business class on the second day of summer term and catch your first glimpse of Spencer Hastings.  
  
\---  
  
You're pretty sure you wouldn't be nearly as interested in Spencer Hastings if it were possible to figure out...anything about her.

Even Abed, the master database of information about your fellow students, is only able to gather the bare facts: her age (seventeen, nearly eighteen), her home state (Pennsylvania), a shadow of a reason for her presence (spending the summer with relatives), and the fact that she's the only person at Greendale who seems more attached to her cell phone than you are. This girl is clearly talented at playing things close to the vest -- the tweed, fitted, leather-piped vest that in theory shouldn’t ever work but makes perfect sense when it’s hugging Spencer Hastings’ torso like that.  
  
You don't even notice that you've started to move closer and closer to her in class until the day when you suddenly realize you're sitting in the desk right behind hers. You barely have time to try and brush it off before she walks into the classroom still wrapped up in a conversation on her cell. There's mention of age, and of some people with such ridiculous names that you suspect she's speaking in code -- Wren? Ezra? Aria? Are these things that people name their children? -- especially when she refers to another person a few times only as "A."  
  
You relay the information to Abed out of a sense of loyalty. And even though Annie punishes you with your least favorite wide-eyed pout when she finds out you've been sitting by the girl who's constantly showing her up in Post-Independence African Literature, you keep your new seat.

\---

If you needed any more confirmation that Spencer Hastings is not another version of Annie Edison, you receive it the first time you try and charm a copy of her notes out of her. The glare she gives you is intensely withering, even more so than the one she gives you when she finds out you used to be a defense attorney.

(Then there are the couple of times the following week when she asks you hypothetical but oddly specific questions about reasonable doubt and lesser included charges in a murder trial. You think about offering to trade her answer for answer, but then it might look like you care about the dramatics of this teenaged girl's life, and you just don't.)

Abed has decided on Katharine Hepburn as his go-to reference for Spencer Hastings. Britta, who's never actually talked to the girl, loudly declares that she doesn't trust her, and she and Annie have taken to retiring to the couches for whispered conversations at the conclusion of your Biology study sessions. You're not sure how long those last because you leave then to make your midday wardrobe change before getting to Philosophy of Business early enough to claim your new seat; some guy with glasses whose name you can't remember seems to have been eying it.

Your limbs are long and so are Spencer Hastings' and the desks are small, so one day towards the end of class when you're adjusting positions, your ankle brushes hers and she jerks so violently that she spills the remainder of her ever-present coffee on the bitchy blonde next to her. It crosses your mind to offer to buy her a new one after class, but she's on her phone and out of the room like a bullet from a gun the moment the professor has finished, and you sit back and remind yourself that seventeen-year-olds shouldn't have that kind of caffeine dependency anyway.

\---

About midway through the semester, Annie sees you and Spencer Hastings sharing a table in the library. She doesn't speak to you or answer your texts for the rest of the day, instead channeling anything she needs to say to you through Abed, to the increasing frustration of the rest of the group.

The next morning (after several more unanswered texts through the course of the night), you corner her before Biology to explain that Spencer Hastings still refuses to make copies of her notes but will allow you to look at them as long as you're studying together. Annie's frosty exterior visibly melts as you remind her that if she can't be in  _every_ one of your classes, you're occasionally going to have to go elsewhere for study help, even if it's nowhere near as good as hers and from someone she doesn't like very much.

And things probably could have gone back to normal if you hadn't finished your speech with the reassurance that Spencer Hastings is just a kid. Annie's lips part a little, silently, and you resist the urge to slap your palm to your forehead as you both remember a time when you would have said the exact same thing about Annie.

\---

The thing is that if you were asked at any point over the last twenty years what hair color you preferred on a woman, you wouldn't even have needed to breathe before saying it was red -- but since those were scarce, blonde would do in a pinch. And yet you're getting uncomfortably close to admitting that Spencer Hastings is the latest in a line of brunettes to worm her way past your defenses. And she's done it by...doing nothing at all.

Despite Annie's unfortunate reaction to the sight, your study sessions are nothing steamy. They're businesslike and never a minute longer than they need to be; no conversational tangents or ninety-second study breaks or flirty side comments. It's almost as if Spencer Hastings just has more important things on her mind, which shouldn't seem so foreign after only three years at Greendale but it does. She's always on the phone having secretive, sharp conversations with people  _back East,_  as she puts it.  _Back East_ , where she says she plays field hockey -- as if  _that's_ a thing that people actually still do.

She shows you a picture of her in her uniform on her cell phone to prove it, and the phone absolutely does not slip a little in your grasp as you take in the image of Spencer Hastings in full field hockey uniform. Your eyes briefly dart back up to hers to make sure she doesn’t think the phone slipped,  _because it didn’t_ , and you're just thinking that there's no way you're imagining the tiny smirk on her lips when the phone lights up with yet another call.  **Aria** , you see on the screen, before she snatches it back and answers breathlessly, not with "Hello?" but with "Tell me everything" as she walks away.

You'd think a field hockey player from  _back East_  would have better phone manners than that.

You start to feel like the ability to exist in the cartoonish world of Greendale and be seemingly unaffected by it, to remember that there's a real world with different rules and different consequences that used to make total sense to you (that outside world used to be your bitch) is a special talent that Spencer Hastings possesses. What's more, you can't shake the idea that maybe you could glean some of that talent from this girl by way of physical proximity to her. You lean forward in your desk behind her instead of sprawling backwards. After that first time, she no longer jumps when your leg brushes hers. One time, she turns and catches you with your fingers in the very ends of her hair that's resting on your desk, and this time you know you're not imagining the smirk. 

And it's at that point that you know you'd never be able to successfully deny to Spencer Hastings just what kind of attention you've found yourself giving her, because this is not, as they apparently say, her first rodeo. Instead of chasing you down about it, or confronting you, or even saying a word, at the end of class she's gone again, and you watch that hair whip around the door frame and out of sight, leaving you with the impossible job of facing the fact that Spencer Hastings has got you well and truly fucked.

\---

The next day you find yourself constantly, irrationally angry with Annie. After all, it's kind of her fault that you're even capable of thinking about someone that much younger than you as anything other than a child. Once upon a time, you were attracted to age-appropriate women like Britta and Slater. Then one day you realized that without your knowledge or consent, your fantasies had turned from knowing smiles and deliberately swaying hips to wide eyes and breathy gasps and young, impossibly perky breasts.

It's an even more unpleasant surprise the first time you really catch yourself daydreaming and become conscious of the fact that for some time now, the legs from those fantasies haven't been disappearing into a flouncy floral skirt, but an impossibly small plaid skirt, and that the thighs aren't soft and white but tanned and athletically slim. You smack yourself in the forehead and plan for the entire day to skip Philosophy of Business.

Then two o'clock rolls around and it's the first time in three years you can remember  _going_ to class against your better judgment.

Spencer Hastings' hair is up in a ponytail and at one point you use the eraser end of your pencil to push it all aside and nudge her gently at her nape. You see goosebumps spread across the tops of her shoulders from the eraser's point of origin and disappear underneath the taupe silk of her boat neck blouse. After a full minute has passed, her normally erect posture starts to ease and she leans back so that the entire bottom half of her long ponytail is spread across your desk and her shoulders are flush with the edge.

You're about to repeat the motion, with your index finger instead of your pencil, when you suddenly remember where you are and look out of the corner of your eye to see Vicki staring at you. Instead you flex your hand like it's sore from writer's cramp, even though your notes consist only of a dirty limerick you're planning on showing to Troy later.

If anyone should ever ask, it never even crossed your mind that maybe Spencer Hastings would be waiting for you in the hallway after she and that hair of hers disappear around the corner of the classroom door. She's not waiting, so it doesn't matter anyway.

\---

Even you can't manage to blame Annie for long, despite your best efforts. You delay your inevitable nervous breakdown by passing the blame off to whoever or whatever is around, from that guy with the glasses to your business professor to the size of your desks. For a glorious half-hour, you're convinced that all this is the fault of those stupid lockers, making Greendale feel like a damned high school, making  _you_  act like a high schooler, crushing on a high schooler...

And then the half-hour ends and all that remains is  _oh my god, you're crushing on a high schooler_. And it does feel like high school again, only at the same time you've never been so aware just how far out of high school you are. You've never been touchy about your age before; even in your most cringe-worthy situations with Annie, the problem wasn't that you were too old, it was that  _she_ was too  _young_.

And yet "too young" just seems like the wrong description for Spencer Hastings in every way. You're studying together one day, and the fifth time that you can't help sneaking a glance at her, you find her already looking at you. "Looking" probably isn't even the right word. She's gazing, she's examining, she's...well, she's  _studying_ , which might just be Spencer Hastings' default setting, but she doesn't look away. She doesn't blink and whip her eyes back down to the book in front of her, or giggle, or flush. Instead she sets down her blue highlighter and raises her fingertips to your face, slowly, like you're a wild animal that she's afraid of spooking, even while she looks like she might run away any second herself. Her shoulders are as tense as ever but her touch is feather-light when it reaches just the outer corner of your eye, where you know you have lines around your eyes because you've spent an amount of time that you haven't kept track of but you know definitely qualifies as "too much" staring at them yourself in the mirror.

You may have been a fake lawyer in your previous life, but you still know plenty about the law, and there haven't been a lot of times in your life when you disliked having that knowledge. But right now there's one fact burning in your brain until it feels like it might set your whole scalp on fire, consuming you in flames and taking Spencer Hastings with you, and that fact is the age of consent in Colorado:  _seventeen_.

Spencer Hastings' touch disappears from your skin; her hand hangs in midair for a moment before she sets it on the table between the two of you, closer to your arm than it was before. You raise your eyebrows (wrinkling your forehead, you can't help but remember) and wait for the inevitable interruption. You wait for the Dean to "wander randomly through the library" which means come searching for you, or for Pierce to appear and immediately knock something over, or for the sound you spend much of your study sessions with Spencer Hastings dreading: Annie gasping. You wait for the interruption from  _Greendale --_  from the living, warped, saboteur it seems to be -- to stop whatever's happening between you and the ( _seventeen-year-old, seventeen, seventeen)_  girl mere inches away from you. 

It doesn't come.

\---

At the same time the next day, you're walking down the hallways of Greendale thinking about your first kiss with Spencer Hastings, not because you want to but because you literally haven't figured out how to do anything else. You have just enough spare brainpower that you've been able to avoid Annie all day; you have this insane idea that with one look at you she'll  _know_ , that there's some pheromone you give off when you've been making out with a teenager that will just put Annie's brain on high alert the moment she gets a whiff of you.

The rest of your brain, however, is all smooth lips under yours and long glossy hair clenched between your fingers. Spencer Hastings’ hand had been there on the table, something more than an invitation and less than a demand, and she seemed unbothered by your muttered curse word as you closed the distance between the two of you. Your hand went to her hair first, that irresistible hair, but she reciprocated with her own nails scratching against your scalp mere seconds later and then was the one to actually leave her seat and bring her body into contact with yours, giving all of her weight over to you before tugging you up against her insistently. You're pretty sure that at one point you actually shoved all of the books and notes off the table onto the floor, and even now as you make your way blindly through the hall a day later you're cringing at the cliché of it all.

But her mouth tasted like coffee and her slim hips fit so neatly inside yours as you pressed her up against the edge of that table, your hands waving wildly behind her to create a clear surface that she proceeded to climb onto without needing any assistance or encouragement from you. In fact, as her fingers wound themselves into your shirt and gripped with surprising strength, you thought you might lose your own balance and fall right down on top of her. It didn’t happen. Spencer Hastings wouldn’t have allowed it.

(And at the same time tomorrow you may wonder why you didn't hide just now. Why you decided to sit down on a bench in the wide open hallway where anyone could come across you. After all, you're positive Spencer Hastings wouldn't come looking for you like Annie would, about as positive as you are that if Spencer Hastings wanted to find you there's not a person or solid steel wall on campus that would be able to get in her way. Really, it wouldn't be hard to buy yourself a day until you see her again in class tomorrow. If you skip Philosophy of Business you can buy yourself the weekend. So why aren't you hiding? Why aren't you positively  _running_?

You ran from Annie, once. You ran from her and hid from her and because it was summer and she was Annie and neither of you had any idea how to handle what was happening between you, it worked.

Tomorrow you may think about all this until your head hurts, think about why you didn't run and whether Spencer Hastings would even have let you because really, you finally think you've come to terms with the fact that you’re just not in charge here the way you would have thought you would be -- the way you  _should_ be, should be taking responsibility as the adult here no matter how out of your grasp it seems, how out of your grasp you want it to be. Tomorrow you may think about this, and also whether it would have made a difference if you'd had one more day before seeing Spencer Hastings again.

Tomorrow will be too late.)

You've watched Spencer Hastings whip that hair of hers around a corner as she leaves you behind so many times that you almost don't recognize the gesture in reverse. What's even less familiar is that after you've realized Spencer Hastings just came around the nearest corner, she hovers there for a minute just looking at you. It's the most indefinite you've ever seen her, and then she pushes back her hair with one hand and sucks her damn lower lip into her mouth and again, it's like your decision’s been made already by some future version of you, calling back through time, because you're on your feet and striding towards her -- no,  _past_  her.

You don't look behind you but when you open the door to the closet you once tried to pass off as Professor Professorson's office, she scoots in ahead of you before you lock the door. Now the time for looking at each other is gone and you've barely gotten the door closed behind you when her legs are wrapped around your waist -- she just leaps up like there's not a doubt in her mind that you'll catch her, which you do, and then you're having your second kiss with Spencer Hastings.

\---

You’ve known about Spencer Hastings' skill with words since pretty much the moment you met her. She has an SAT-level vocabulary and the creativity to use it well.

(You discovered yesterday that she’s also good with her  _mouth_ , which is an entirely different skill set.)

But here you are leaning against the door of a supply closet, your arms full of Spencer Hastings, and she's good with words and you're just fucking  _excellent_  with words, and the two of you haven't exchanged a single one since the first time your lips met about twenty-four hours ago. Is it cheesy to think that you're communicating better with her right now, with her thighs squeezing your sides and her knees bumping the door, than you ever have verbally? Is it even possible to be cheesy about this situation -- so wrong, so hot, so depraved?

Spencer Hastings' legs tighten even more and it's officially time to shut off your brain.

You manage to shift so that you're only holding her up with one arm, which really probably isn't even necessary given the apparent strength of her thighs, but it also lets you keep a nice handful of Spencer Hastings' ass. Your other hand gropes its way up her back, alternately flexing against her spine and sliding along the smooth fabric of her dress, until you reach the back of her neck where her muscles are rigid. Her hair is up today in some kind of bun, and you briefly mourn the loss of the way the shiny strands feel in your hands before noting that you now have easy access to her neck, throat, bare shoulders: precious inches of flawless young skin readily available to you. You take advantage, easily hiking Spencer Hastings up higher against your body as your mouth feverishly works its way down her chin and across her throat from the tip of your finger to the tip of your thumb.

She pulls her hands from your hair and plants them on your shoulders, digging in her fingers as she tilts her head back and arches into you. Your response is to spin around so that it's Spencer Hastings' turn to be pressed up against the door without relinquishing your mouth's vacuum seal on her collarbone. You do let go of the back of her neck, though, and your hand can't seem to find where it wants to be for a few moments. It slides down her arm to cover her hand on your shoulder, briefly, then skims over the curve of her waist, your thumb sliding under her breast; you can feel just the bottom of her bra before your hand gets to where it was apparently heading.

Before you know it, you're grasping the outside of her thigh and the loose fabric of her dress is falling away easily to accommodate your hand as it slides upwards. Just as you reach the crease of her hip, you seem to come to the same decision at the same time: Spencer Hastings loosens the vice grip her thighs have had on your waist at the same time you disconnect from her neck and lower the arm that's still underneath her ass, and she slides down your body to finally bring your centers into contact. Both of your hands clench down on her body and you both moan, and then your eyes meet.

Her eyes are dark and heavy-lidded at the moment, but still so young, and you know that from this close range, she can see every detail of those lines that so captivated her yesterday. Your right hand once again joins your left, under Spencer Hastings' ass but over the fabric of her dress, and she silently allows you to lower her to the ground, touching her feet to the floor lightly beneath her before you give her back her own weight. As she settles to the floor something seems to give inside her; you're not sure if she lets out a deep breath she's been holding, or if her ever-tense muscles relax, or maybe it's in her eyes.

You still don't have any interest in stepping back from her and you know that if Spencer Hastings wanted distance from you, she'd be making that clear, and so you stay right there, well inside her personal space, not exactly pinning her against the door but not giving her room for much more than some hard breathing, which is what she's still doing. So are you, you realize, and you move your hands one more time, to her waist.

The dress she's wearing today is white with a crisp black Peter Pan collar. The black pattern across the dress, you now see, is a print of cats, and the in-your-face youthfulness of it all makes your chest ache.

Spencer Hastings, however, seems more interested in  _your_  collar, under which she's sliding her fingers. Rather than gripping your shirt like she did yesterday when she left wrinkles so deep and obvious that you'd had to change  _back_  into your pre-wardrobe change shirt afterwards, she finds your top button...and unbuttons it.

Your breath catches, but you don't move your hands from her waist. Spencer Hastings is moving at a deliberate pace, unhurried but certainly not wasting any time, as she works all the way down your torso. She has to pull at the bottom of your shirt to untuck it and reach the last button, which she releases before pulling the loose sides of your shirt apart to see your bare skin. You can feel her breath on your sternum, which she caresses lightly before meeting your eyes.

You're not sure why you're still waiting, what signal or permission (or interruption: this  _is_  still Greendale) you're expecting to come. You're quite sure that you're not expecting Spencer Hastings to reach up underneath her dress, holding eye contact the entire way, and slide her underwear far enough down her legs that they fall the rest of the way to the ground without you having to back away from her at all. She steps out of them and leaves them there, on the floor.

The temperature of your blood seems to raise several degrees and your hands involuntary leave Spencer Hastings' waist and smack against the door on either side of her, but she isn't done. Her hands are moving again, feeling along the exposed skin right above the waistband of your jeans until she reaches your right back pocket, where you keep your wallet. She digs it out (your hips only buck up against her a little bit, you swear, and considering you know she's now bare under that dress, you're impressed with your own restraint), brings it back around between your bodies, and only has to search for a few seconds before finding a condom. She slides it out, holding it between two fingers as she drops your wallet to the floor next to her underwear.

Well, putting whatever crisis of conscience you’ve been half-having aside, you’re still Jeff Winger and you’re not about to be shown up in the coolness department by a teenaged girl. You know from groping up and down her back that her dress has one of those big exposed zippers that Spencer Hastings seems to like so much, and the removal of her dress may not be strictly necessary for what’s about to happen, but the look on her face when you slowly reach back to slide that zipper down and trail your fingers down her bare back is unmissable. Her eyes flutter shut and she lets out a breath that’s almost a moan as your hand drifts lower and lower, and the hand holding up the condom starts to list over to the side before you catch it.

The two of you stay like that for a long moment: each with one hand pressed to the other’s lower back, your hand wrapped around her slight wrist between you. Soon, though, it suddenly seems like an unbearable amount of time has passed since you’ve kissed her, so you lean down and press your lips to hers, once, twice, and a third time before teasing her mouth open, closing your eyes, and really getting involved.

You sacrifice contact with your hands but not your mouth as you start to slide off your shirt. It drops to the floor behind you, but you feel another whisper of fabric tumbling to the ground against your torso just before nimble fingers find the button of your jeans, and it’s this that makes you stop the kiss and open your eyes because Spencer Hastings is naked and taking off your pants.

Said pants are soon pushed down to the floor, along with your briefs, and stepped out of once you’ve both taken the opportunity to hastily slip off your shoes and kick them to the side. There’s so much clothing on the ground now that it’s impossible to avoid stepping on it and so you don’t, instead turning your attention to the wrapped condom that Spencer Hastings has miraculously managed to hold onto. You reach for it but she twitches it just out of reach, and when you reflexively lean forward a bit to follow, your bodies make full skin-to-skin contact for the first time. You draw in a choking breath and fall a little bit into the door again. Spencer Hastings is pressed between you and the door and it can’t feel warm or comfortable against her back but she’s not complaining, and with her breasts pressed against you and your cock firm against her stomach you’re not exactly inclined to make any major adjustments.

No, what you do is kiss her again, and snake one arm between your bodies, both just starting to get slick with sweat. You brush against your own cock on the way down but you nibble at her lower lip and continue on course until you reach your goal, right between her legs, and her arms fly back up to wrap themselves around your neck where she can hold you close to her but still give you room to maneuver. You move your mouth back to just below her ear and play there with your tongue while you gently work at her clit, just lightly, just a bit, and when you explore lower you find her gratifyingly wet and pliant. She turns her face into the side of yours and lets out a hot breath into your ear. Your cock jumps and the serrated edge of the condom wrapper is digging into the back of your neck where she’s holding it.

With your free hand you start to reach for it again, but Spencer Hastings fends you off again, withdrawing her hands from behind your neck, pulling them between you, and neatly opening the wrapper before using her fingertips to prod you backwards just enough to give her room to roll the condom on purposefully. It’s the first time she’s touched your cock with her hands, besides brushing against it while she was getting your pants off, and you can’t help but groan and reach for her breast, lifting and kneading it as her fingers work down from head to base.

When everything is situated you look at each other. Your hands slide to her ass again and you can practically hear her counting to three in her head before, in one smooth movement, you lift, she jumps, her legs are around you again and all it takes is some hurried arranging and one thrust before you’re buried inside her.

There hasn’t exactly been an excess of foreplay and while Spencer may be a teenager, you’re certainly not, but the tension you’ve been feeling over the last several weeks is working with the adrenaline from the semi-public setting and questionable integrity of the situation. All that is to say that this is  _really really fucking hot_  and you shift her weight over to one arm again so that you can return to her clit with more determination this time, indulging a deep need to feel her come around you before your dick gets the better of you. Spencer starts making tiny little noises in time with your thrusts and fingers and you almost can’t bear to make her stop but when she starts to get louder you have to, so you kiss her again and she does.

She breaks away when she seems to need air but she’s quieter now, and when she comes it’s with a low, keening sound that she stifles with your shoulder as she bites there. Just before she starts to come down, though, she arches her back and gives you a perfect view not only of her breasts but of her face, too, as her concentrated expression melts into a lazy, happy smile. You proceed to grip her ass with both hands again for optimum leverage and after a few more desperate thrusts you’re there, your mouth dropping open and your jaw tensing as Spencer leans against the door, grips the back of your neck and digs her heels into your ass.

You can’t stay standing for long and you manage to turn around before lowering yourself to the floor in a movement that’s barely controlled enough to not be classified as collapsing. Spencer’s still in your lap and pressed close to you; you’re once again the one leaning against the door. She leans her forehead against yours as you both gasp for breath and she’s sweaty and you’re sweaty but you find that you don’t really mind. You’ve slipped out of her now, so you take the liberty of removing the condom from your softening cock and depositing it into a nearby bucket.

Neither of you has said a word.

And maybe that’s why it seems doubly jarring to hear Spencer’s familiar ringtone cut through the silence, coming from the purse you had yet to notice but that she must have carried in here and dropped to the floor before hopping into your arms the first time. She makes no move to get up or answer it though, so you wrap your arms carefully around her waist.

As if it’s suddenly been reminded of its function, your own phone vibrates in the pocket of your jeans just next to your leg. Just twice, quickly: a text message. Spencer slides a bit further forward so her knees touch the floor on either side of you, cushioned by the fabric of her own dress, and she's draped across you in what could reasonably be called a sprawl.

The two of you sit there, naked and pressed together on a pile of discarded clothing, your phones pointlessly demanding attention, and breathe.


End file.
